


The Man Who Invented Sherlock Holmes

by Calais_Reno



Series: Author [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book: A Study in Scarlet, Book: The Sign of the Four, Don’t copy to another site, Imagination, Literary Ambitions, M/M, Unhappy marriage, Victorian Attitudes, detective fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-05 23:41:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19050856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: John Watson, struggling young doctor, doomed to live an ordinary life, dreams of writing detective fiction. If he can just figure out his hero's name, the story will practically write itself.





	1. In Which Our Hero Gets a Name and Makes his Appearance

John Watson had often reflected on how one’s name might determine one’s destiny.

His own name was a perfect example. The most frequently bestowed surname in the western world, followed by a middle name that must have been the result of an unresolved quarrel between his parents (he wasn’t sure who had won), and ending with a surname ranked among the most common in the British Isles. Result: an ordinary man whose unremarkable exterior concealed a secretly romantic soul.

Had he been born _Hugo Knight_ , for example, he might have been more courageous, ready to defy the ordinary. The name _Lysander Hughes_ might have bestowed a poetic nature on him. _Ormond Sacker_ , on the other hand, sounded eccentric and a bit dusty. _John Watson_ was just dull. Even with the unconventional _Hamish_ bookended between those two uninspiring names, it did not improve. It was destiny, he supposed.

But his name did not stop him from imagining. From an early age, he’d dreamed of travel to far away places, visiting the Orient, the Dark Continent, and the Levant. He’d write adventure stories set in those places. _J.H. Watson_ , he might sign himself. Or he could simply adopt a pen name. _Rex Blackburn. Josiah Wolfe. Raymond Maddox_.

But a man carrying the name _John Watson_ was just the man to marry a woman named Mary Morstan. He’d met her while he was at university studying literature, introduced by a friend and smitten before he knew what was happening. A lovely woman, sweet and smart and a bit cheeky.

“I’ve written stories.” He felt shy confessing his dreams to anyone, but Mary was different.She might encourage his talent. With her at his side, he might pen his great novel. “One story was published in the school literary magazine. And I have an idea for a book. It’s an adventure—”

“But you have top marks in biology and anatomy,” Mary had replied. “And you're so good with people. You’d make a wonderful doctor.” And she looked at him with so much admiration that it stopped his train of thought. John Watson, a doctor? _Dr John Watson. John H Watson, MD. John Hamish Watson, the renowned surgeon… J. Hamish Watson, discoverer of a cure for—_

He hadn't given any thought to medical school. No one in his family had ever gone to university, or even finished school. He'd accepted that he'd be a clerk or maybe a teacher, until he was seized with the idea of writing down some of the stories that bounced around in his brain. He'd shown them to a couple of teachers, who had urged him to give writing a try. Positive reviews led him to dream bigger, and suddenly the idea of writing a novel was no longer out of reach.

But Mary was sighing over the possibility of being a doctor’s wife, and romance (i.e. sex) was a powerful draw. Being a doctor would give him a steady income, he supposed. He could write in his free time. He might even meet up with a bit of adventure by volunteering his services as an army doctor for a few years.

And suddenly, the notion of being a writer seemed so much less enticing. When he examined it through Mary’s eyes (as he imagined), it seemed a bit shabby and decidedly unromantic. Even writers have bills to pay, and skipping meals to pay the gas bill sounded both hungry and cold, with the added disadvantage of an unhappy wife.

They married the year he received his medical degree. She had a bit of money, inherited from her father, who’d had a mildly successful business manufacturing tinned foods, and with this they bought a small house in a respectable, non-shabby neighbourhood.

And there were bills to pay— they must have a cook and a maid, naturally. He obviously could not expect Mary to make their meals and do the washing up, could he? Coal cost money, and keeping the house in repair seemed to take a few shillings out of each week’s income. And there was the clothing— the dresses, the gloves and stockings and hats. A doctor’s wife must look respectable. And for him, no more jackets fraying at the cuff and thin at the elbows. A doctor must wear respectable tweeds, have a decent overcoats and boots for making house calls. No one would engage a doctor whose clothing looked a fright. Such items were an investment, she assured him, which could be maintained more cheaply than buying new. The laundress could replace buttons and mend tears, and boot-cleaning was only a few pennies. Having better things would pay off in the long run.

He worked long hours to afford their respectable life. The time he put into building his practice seemed to pay off mostly in more invitations, which in turn required more gowns and evening attire, as well as the expense of inviting friends for dinner once a month.

Dr Watson did not give up writing. Rather, he squeezed it into the minutes between patients, and into the evenings, after his bride had retired.

“Whatever are you scribbling on about?” Mary often asked him with fond exasperation. “Are you writing love poems?” She smirked. “Poetry will not put bread on our table, John.”

He didn’t remind her of the stories he had written in the early days of their courtship, little romances with heroes named Lysander and Hugo. She had laughed at those stories, finding romance too impractical to consider, his characters unrealistic. She was a practical woman— exactly what he needed, he told himself.

He had moved on from romance. He valued his practical wife, knowing that she would produce children and raise them to be self-sufficient. But his secret heart still craved adventure. His heroes now were detectives.

He devoted a great deal of thought to who his dynamic new hero should be. He’d read everything of Poe’s Dupin and his ratiocination. He studied Gaboriau’s _Monsieur Lecoq,_ a man adept in disguises, meticulous at a crime scene _._ He greatly admired these detectives of fiction, but felt he could provide something more captivating.

Each morning he ate his eggs and toast, drank two cups of tea, and set off for his surgery, where he examined sore throats and rashes, piles and ingrown toenails. Then he made his rounds, tending to those too sick to come around to his offices. All the while, he thought of his hero, a man far above the common policeman, an amazing deducer of men, a handsome seducer of women.

If he could select the right name, the man would materialise, he decided. He tried out Lysander and Hugo, but those were used names, their shininess a bit dull from prior use. As he walked home in the evening, as he sat at dinner with his wife, as he lay beside her in their bed, he visualised his hero.

Tall he must be, he decided. John Watson had spent much of his life looking up to taller men and, next to his name, it was the thing he would have most wanted to change, had he been able. Alas, he had inherited short genes. No amount of romance could compensate for such brevity. His unnamed hero would be tall, over six feet, he decided. _Why not?_ It wasn’t as if his hero were an actor trying out for the role. He was already a hero, in Watson’s mind.

A high forehead, revealing his colossal intellect. Sharp grey eyes showing his observational skills. Curling hair that resisted being tamed with hair oil. Golden hair was much lauded, but Watson was a natural blond himself and had never seen much advantage to it. His hero would be dark, with a barely suppressed passion.

He must have some eccentricities, but only those which would illustrate the quickness of his mind and disregard for convention. He might have long periods where he did not speak, so deep in thought would he sink when contemplating the details of a case. He might sleep or eat little when so engrossed.

And though beset by a hundred eligible damsels, he would remain faithful to his one true mistress: reason, science, logic. He would care little for money, desiring only the challenge of solving a puzzle. Never the one rejected, he would retain his desirability even after declining the affections of many a lady.

Women would swoon over him. They must, considering his good looks and suave manners. A bit of a rogue, perhaps, but polite to a fault. Yes, indeed, there would be swooning. No one had ever swooned over John Watson.

Men would admire, women would swoon over… _Jules?_ (No, too foppish.) _Phineas?_ (Too fidgety.) _Alistair?_ (Too fastidious.)

After three days of trying to assign a name to this paragon of manliness, he finally knew: _Sherrinford Holmes_. Masculine, intellectual, distinguished, heroic.

Once he’d found the name, the plot ideas followed. Sherrinford Holmes might find himself at a social event, dressed to the nines, his carefully combed hair becoming uncoiled and curling romantically over his lofty brow. A guest would be discovered, most foully murdered. Perhaps he would be found in a locked room with no weapon in sight. Every guest would have an alibi. Holmes would deduce with a glance, infer from a mere word who the guilty party was. With a cigarette dangling from his lips, he would calmly lay out the facts of the case, stunning everyone into awed silence. Women would faint at a look from him. He would rescue maidens and elderly spinsters with equal aplomb and put to shame the efforts of Scotland Yard, who would beg him to help with difficult cases.

Watson walked to and from his surgery imagining villains fleeing, Sherrinford Holmes dashing down alleys in pursuit. The man would know firearms, for certain. Watson would have to brush up on that, as well as a few other areas. Since Holmes would be using bits of fibre and small mounds of tobacco ash, in addition to footprints, wear patterns, and stains to make his miraculous deductions, he must be an expert in these matters. Watson must be as well. Or perhaps he could leave the details somewhat vague. No reader really cared about tobacco ash, after all, or types of soil.

But he must be athletic, unvanquished in combat, a master of some obscure oriental martial art. Watson might have to read up on that, lest any reader challenge it. _Baritsu_. He thought he'd heard of that.

The past, where he would have learned all these skills, would be mysterious. Perhaps he had gone to Oxford or Cambridge, but he might also have spent time in the Orient. As a result of his travels, he would be fluent several languages; in addition to the standard French, German, and Russian, he would speak Mandarin, Hindi, Gujarati, Arabic, Pashto, and perhaps Swahili.

But Sherrinford Holmes would not be a man who boasted of his accomplishments. His intelligence would reveal itself through little remarks and observations. He might seem surprised at people’s admiration. He would scoff at accolades, claiming that anyone who really observed could not fail to see the truth. He would decline honours and recognition. All he would care about was that a case was solved, a criminal stopped.

Once Watson set to work on his first story, the pages flew by. He wrote after Mary retired, into the wee hours. He chuckled to think of his sensible wife asking what required such a quantity of ink. He imagined sometimes his print debut (if he could ever stop revising), showing Mary the story in a periodical, his name on the by-line. _By John H Watson._ Or Edwin Alexander. Or Alistair Hancock. He would select a pen name when he’d actually completed a chapter, he decided.

The chapter became recalcitrant, the words looking more ordinary every time he opened his notebook. Sherrinford Holmes was a difficult hero to coax into adventure. He went to many dinner parties and often attended the theatre or the symphony, but though people admired him, he did not find many criminals worthy of his deductive skills. Jewel thieves, swindlers, and (on one occasion) a maker of bogus currency were all quickly slapped into darbies and led away.

One evening he sat in his study marvelling at the man’s brilliance and refusal to be penned onto paper. As he crumbled the paper (the third page that evening to be sacrificed to the flames), he heard a timid knock on his door.

“Doctor Watson,” said the maid. “A gentleman to see you.”

A patient, he supposed. “Show him in.” Though the hour was late, he hated to turn away a person in need. He preferred writing to doctoring, but he needed the fees. Foolscap, after all, cost something, and at the rate he was burning it, he might have to work extra shifts to finish his story.

A tall, thin man with dark hair, receding a bit at the temples. A noble brow, a hawk-nose, and sharp grey eyes. He wore evening dress.

“I am Dr Watson. How may I help you, Mister—” Watson paused for the man to introduce himself.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

 _Odd,_ he thought, glancing at his notebook, where Sherrinford Holmes was currently attending a private dinner party.

“Yes, Mr Holmes,” he said, perceiving that this might be a consultation. “Please, have a seat.”

They sat in the two chairs by the fire. Watson offered him tobacco. He took an old briar pipe out of his pocket and filled it. Accepting Watson’s lit match, he puffed and exhaled, allowing the blue smoke to curl around his head. Once the pipe was lit, he sat back, studying Watson.

“I think I can help you,” he said at last. “On a few matters, at least.”

Watson’s mouth may have dropped open. “ _You_ can help _me_? Sir, I am a doctor. I thought I was receiving a patient when you entered my study.”

“No,” he said. “I can see where your assumption comes from, but you have not deduced correctly. You have seen, but not observed.”

“And how can _you_ help _me_?” Watson asked, feeling a bit affronted by the man’s attitude.

“My name, as I said, is Sherlock Holmes,” the man said. “Sherlock,” he repeated, clicking the _k_ at the end.

“Yes?”

“Not Sherrinford.”

Watson was stunned into momentary silence. “You are saying… you know a man named Sherrinford Holmes?”

“No. He does not exist.”

“I see,” Watson said, though he did not see at all.

“Do you understand?” Mr Holmes said.

Watson slowly shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

“If you are going to write about me,” Holmes said a bit impatiently. “At least get my name right. That is the first item I wish to correct.”

“And the second?” Watson asked, feeling that he might as well hear the entire list before thanking the man politely and handing him his hat.

“I do not like dinner parties,” Holmes said. “I am known to attend the symphony, even the opera on occasion. But I avoid shooting parties, estate receptions, banquets, buffets, balls, and other social gatherings.”

“I see,” Watson said. He could think of no other appropriate comment. “Anything else?”

“My title,” the man said, regarding Watson with keen grey eyes. “I am _not_ a private detective.”

“No?”

“I am a consulting detective, the only one in the world. I invented the occupation, so I ought to be able to determine what it is to be called.”

“I see.”

“But you do not observe.” He glared at John Watson. “You have questions.”

“I do not mean to question your authority to name your own occupation,” he said, “but what is a consulting detective? If you do not mind my asking.”

“The police call me in when they can’t solve a case themselves.”

“But the police don’t consult—”

A look from Sherlock Holmes silenced him. “No, they do not consult amateurs.”

“I did not mean to imply—” Watson licked his lips. “Erm… have we met?”

Sherlock Holmes stood. He was over six feet tall, Watson decided. High forehead, keen grey eyes. He stared at Watson as if deducing his soul.

“Grow a moustache,” he snapped. “Good night, Doctor.”


	2. In Which Watson Introduces a Foil and Holmes is Bored

The following day, Watson awoke, wondering if he’d had one too many glasses of port. He felt as if all night long he’d been following in the wake of Sherrinford— no, _Sherlock_ Holmes. Down alleys, over bridges, through the park they ran, chasing criminals. At one point, he could swear he’d climbed up a fire escape staircase to the roof of a building, leaped across the space between that building and the next, nearly losing his grip and falling into the alley below. But he managed to keep his man within sight.

He decided to take the day off. Sending a note around to the surgery, he asked for coffee and retired to his study, still wearing his dressing gown and slippers. Mary frowned. “You seem quite well, John. What is the trouble?”

“I am not well,” he said, and closed the door.

Laying his notebook out on the desk, he filled his pen with ink and began to write.

_Sherlock Holmes always said that real life was infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent…_

Within a couple hours, Sherlock Holmes had been invited to an elegant party at the home of the Lockwoods in Mayfair. There he met a lady who finally drew his notice, and Watson at once seized on the possibilities. Sherlock Holmes might be a more cooperative character if he had a partner, a foil who would stimulate his best qualities and modify his worst. This lady— _Miss Adams, Addison, Adler?_ — could be that character.

She practically wrote herself. Witty, smart, daring— and beautiful, of course. Her skin was fair, her hair dark. Her eyes were blue, not the blue of a summer sky, but the pale blue of winter, icy and clear. A small woman, but one who could stand up to the nonsense most men aimed at her. Her parents despair of every finding her a suitable husband. _I want nothing to do with husbands,_ she declared. Though she enjoyed silk dresses and adorable hats, she sometimes wished she’d been born male, just to have the same opportunities as all those silly men who chased her.

Watson chuckled to himself. It was the day after the elegant dinner. She and Holmes had traded barbs, circling like dancers who have at last found the perfect partner. Holmes had left the party, hot on the trail of a thief who’d nicked Mrs Lockwood’s diamond necklace, but returned to his flat disappointed. Unbeknownst to him, Irene Adler, disguised as a boy, had broken into Holmes’ flat while he was out. She would have to steal something, just to see if he noticed. But before she could make her escape, there he was—

“Excuse me, Doctor.” The maid stood at the door, looking apologetic. “A gentleman is here.”

“I am indisposed.” He wasn’t even decent, he realised, still in his dressing gown. And he hadn’t shaved.

“He is quite insistent,” she said. “I’ve explained that you are ill, but he won’t leave.”

Watson snorted. “Does he give his name?”

The man himself appeared behind the maid. “My name is Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “As you well know, Doctor Watson.”

There was no point in escorting him out. He had already seated himself in his chair and was helping himself to tobacco. Though it was nine in the morning, he was wearing evening attire.

Watson sat down, resigned to whatever might unfold, and motioned for the maid to bring tea. “Mr Holmes, how can I help you?”

Holmes glared at him. “I thought I made it clear to you that I dislike parties. Intensely.”

He realised that it was time he brought his character under control. “How else are you to find interesting cases?”

“By consulting with the police, my dear man. I explained that to you that they call me when they are out of their depth.”

“But— I can’t fill my story with policemen! They’re not interesting characters— why, I don’t even know how to write a policeman. And readers don’t want common characters. They want people who are upper class, educated. Readers want characters who move in circles they themselves will never frequent. They want—”

“Stuffy, shallow, and boring? I was at that _elegant_ affair you wrote. Every one of the attendees was too boring to produce any interesting crimes. Nobody was worthy of my attention.”

“Nobody?” Watson smiled. “Did you not meet Miss Adler?”

“I did.” He paused to light his pipe.

“And what did you think?”

He inclined his head and pursed his lips, evaluating. “As women go, I suppose she was above average.”

“She will make an excellent foil, my dear Holmes. Do you not think so?”

“I do not,” he replied. He sighed. “I do not wish to hurt your feelings, Watson, but I don’t believe you understand what a foil is meant to do.”

“How so?”

“A foil is to provide a contrast, to highlight what is striking about your main character. You obviously are trying to make me nearly superhuman. To do that, you need a character who is the opposite in most respects. Miss Adler is exceedingly bright, observant, and a bit sharp-tongued. Who does that remind you of?”

He thought about this. “She is worthy of you, Holmes.”

“No, Watson, she _is_ me. You have created a female version of me. A bit more devious, I admit, but I put that down to her feminine mindset. She is me in a silk dress. For god’s sake, she even looks like me, the way you describe her.”

“Love interest?” he suggested.

“Love is not my area,” he said. “I have no time for romance.”

Watson shook his head. “Readers want romance.”

“I do not want it.” He frowned.

“She is breaking into your flat. I think she’s going to steal something. You’ll be annoyed, exasperated, but admire her boldness and intelligence. You’ll grumble about _that woman,_ but you’ll pay a call on her.”

“And the battle of wits will resume. Tiresome flirtation.”

“Readers will eat it up.”

“I will not marry, Watson. Don't you dare write me proposing to her. I refuse.”

“I'm keeping her in the story.”

“Fine. She will make an excellent villain.”

“Villain? What sort of villain?”

“I don't care. Blackmail, perhaps. She seems devious enough for that.”

“Blackmail? She’s a young, beautiful woman.”

“Cliché. Beautiful women can be criminals.”

It occurred to Watson that readers might like the element of surprise inherent in the idea. After all, a mystery was not entertaining if readers figured it out in Chapter Two. And Holmes could still flirt with her. The rivalry of two great minds.

“Very well,” he said. “Whom should she blackmail?”

“Forget the blackmail.” He stood. “She took the necklace. Now, will you please get her out of my flat?”

 

Sherlock Holmes needed a place to live. Not that he would spend much time there, but the flat should reflect his eclectic nature. He walked to see his patients one afternoon, studying the neighbourhoods. As he was heading down Baker Street, near Regents Park, he decided that this neighbourhood was central enough, and just the right mix of bohemian and respectable middle class to make a good location for the flat of his detective. _Consulting_ detective, he corrected himself.

It could not be a real address, though. The last postal address on the street was Number 85. He studied the terrace houses and finally settled on a building south of Marylebone, near George Street. The number would be 221B, he decided.

The interior of the flat required description, he supposed. Readers always wanted to know what colour the wallpaper was and where the bedroom would be placed in relation to the sitting room. The flat was one flight up from the street. There would be a landlady living on the ground floor, a widow, not a talkative person. She would bring his breakfast and tea, perhaps dust. Mrs Turner would be her name. Or Mrs Hudson. Well, it didn’t matter. She was just the housekeeper.

There must be enough room in the flat for the chemical experiments Holmes would run. The furniture would be old and comfortable, for Sherlock Holmes would not put up with stiff sofas and hard-backed chairs. He spent a great deal of time thinking and smoking his pipe. A desk would be needed, a chair for clients, and bookcases. He’d fill in the details later.

Having given Holmes a place to live, he was considering his next adventure, when once again, the maid appeared in the doorway.

“I beg your pardon, Doctor,” she said. “A gentleman was here to see you while you were out.” She held a silver tray out to him. “He left his card.”

He stood and took the card.

Sherlock Holmes

Consulting Detective

221B Baker Street

Marylebone, London

The script was plainer than a dashing detective deserved, but Watson hadn’t been consulted. “How the devil…?” He would have to go back to Baker Street and see this flat.

 

Patients took up the rest of his day. Then it was dinner time, and Mary had invited some guests to join them.

“Make haste, my dear,” she said to him. “I had the maid brush your evening clothes. But you must shave first.”

“I have,” he replied.

She frowned. “You missed a spot.” She placed a finger on his upper lip. “What is this?”

“Obviously, it is a moustache.”

“You don’t have a moustache.”

“I have started one.”

She sighed with impatience. “Why, tonight, must you start your moustache when I have invited the Dodds and the Pickerings for dinner? You look like a vagabond.”

He shrugged. “I’m sure no one will faint at the sight of hair growing on my upper lip. Pickering has a full beard.”

“Mr Pickering is not a doctor. Patients like their doctors clean-shaven. It looks more hygienic. Now go see to it.”

She went into the kitchen to ascertain whether the cook had bought a satisfactory trout, and see how she planned to cook the beef.

He went to his study and poured himself a glass of port, opened his notebook, and prepared to write. Now it was time for him to begin a case in earnest, and the jewel theft seemed promising, especially as he’d already created Miss Adler, the beautiful thief. But he was finding it hard to plot. Everything he thought of was either too obvious or too obtuse.

When he started writing, he had imagined the dashing detective finding lost jewellery and wills, and determining whether the body in the drawing room had been murdered by the gardener or the butler. All of that had been merely an excuse for his detective to develop an entourage of female admirers vying for his attention. Holmes was much better at spurning ladies’ affections than he had planned, for every single romance Watson imagined for him seemed to end not in heartbreak, but in animosity.

He wrote: _“Oh, Mr Holmes,” Miss Lydia Allerton sighed. “Your deductions make me quite dizzy. I feel a bit faint.”_

This was obviously the cue for Holmes to swoop her up in his arms and place her gently on the sofa, calling for the maid to bring brandy. Her eyes would flutter open, see Holmes, and she would blush to have him so close. He would whisper to her:

_“Have no fear, Miss Allerton. I am trained to handle delicate situations. No one need know how that scoundrel stole a kiss from your lips. Your secrets are safe with me.”_

_She whispered, “And my lips as well?”_

_“Most secure,” he said. Leaning towards her—_

Those were the words he intended to write. What he’d actually written was quite different.

_“I observe no paling of your complexion, Miss Allerton. You will not faint, I assure you. And Mr Kirby is not the man who stole your silly diary. He has far too much money to bother with a relatively plain young lady whose father squandered what little fortune he had on ill-fated schemes. Mr Sutton is the thief, and it is not your fortune he is after; rather, he seeks the patent for a left-handed spoon which your father owns, but has never used. Mr Sutton will be happy to go through your virtue if he can get his hands on that piece of paper. And if you must keep a diary of all your pitiful flirtations, use a better lock. Good day.”_

It did sound like Holmes, he had to admit. The man was positively rude at times. Before he could review what he’d written and decide whether to keep it, the door bell rang and he hurried to put on his suit.

Over dinner, he found himself paying little attention to the chatter of their guests. Most of it was gossip, which did not interest him. He sank into a reverie, thinking about Miss Allerton and her diary, Mr Sutton and the left-handed patent.

“—and he recommended that I consult Mr Sherlock Holmes,” Mrs Dodds was saying. “So naturally, I went right around and asked to see him.”

Watson’s mouth dropped open.

“What’s he like?” Mrs Pickering asked. “Is he handsome?”

She gave an indignant sniff. “It would not matter if he were Prince Albert himself. He told me he does not find missing items for ladies, but if a body should turn up in my garden, he would be happy to have a look.”

“What a fellow!” Pickering said.

The bell rang once again, and in a moment the maid appeared with a telegram. “Doctor, it’s for you.”

The telegram ran this way: _Come at once, if convenient. If not convenient, come all the same. SH_

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It seems I must attend a patient.”

Mary was displeased. “Oh, John. Can’t you get Anstruther to cover for you?”

“He’s fishing in Scotland. And this patient requires my specific, erm, skill set. Apologies.”

 

A hansom took him to 221B Baker Street, which had inexplicably become a real place. As he descended from the cab, he heard gun fire. He ran through the front door, almost colliding withthe landlady, who was hollering up the stairs. “Mr Holmes!”

“What has happened?” he asked the landlady. “Mrs Turner, has a burglar broken in?”

She frowned at him. A stout, middle-aged woman with greying hair tied back in a bun. The hair might have once been red, he decided. She would speak with a bit of a brogue, revealing her Scottish ancestry. “It’s Mrs Hudson, and no burglar. But if Mr Holmes does not behave himself, I will have to call the police and have him arrested.”

Another shot rang out.

“Don’t call the police,” he said, then took the stairs two at a time. 

Bursting through the door, he found Sherlock Holmes, unshaven and in his dressing gown. Reclining upon the sofa, he was taking careful aim at the wallpaper with a pistol, creating a patriotic VR with bullet-pocks.

“Are you mad?” Watson shouted. “What are you doing?”

“Bored,” he replied and fired the pistol again, making the final hole.

“You can’t go shooting up the walls,” Watson said. “The landlady will have you thrown out. I’m not finding you another flat. I spent a good hour describing this one.”

“Then find me a case. I’m bored.”

He heard the front door bang and voices on the floor below, a man talking to Mrs Turner— Mrs Hudson, rather. Then heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. Holmes quickly rose from the sofa and pressed the pistol into Watson’s hand.

A constable stood at the door. “We’ve received reports of shots being fired.” He frowned at the wall.

Watson gaped for a moment, looked down at his hand and saw the pistol.

Sherlock Holmes presented a picture of absolute calm. “My friend is a veteran of the Battle of Maiwand and suffers from a peculiar traumatic neurosis wherein he sees himself beset by Pashtun warriors. I have begged him to let me keep his revolver.” He turned to Watson. “Please, my dear boy, give it to me before you do harm to yourself— or to something less durable than Mrs Hudson’s wall.”

The constable was studying the pattern in the wallpaper. “Crack shot, is he?”

Holmes nodded and took the pistol from Watson’s hand. “And a patriot as well, Constable—?”

“Lestrade,” the man said. He chuckled. “Well, no harm done. Though I expect your landlady will be wanting new wallpaper.”

Constable Lestrade descended the stairs and took a cuppa with Mrs Hudson, sampling her fresh-baked scones.

Watson turned to Holmes. “What the bloody hell—?”

The detective sighed and flung himself into his chair. “Have a seat, Watson.” He gestured at the chair opposite him, a rather squashy-looking armchair upholstered in faded red velvet.

“I didn’t describe this chair,” Watson said, pointing. “I gave _you_ a chair, specifically designed for bohemian posturing. I described a plain, straight-backed chair for clients. But not this red… horror.”

“It’s for my foil,” Holmes said. “I think I shall look for a flatmate, seeing as how you’ve made this place more expensive than I can afford. Especially since I seem to have _no clients_.” He emphasised the last sentence with a reproving glare.

“Right. I have a few ideas. It’s just that Mary— my wife— was giving a dinner party and I had to put my writing aside. I promise, though, that I’ll work on it tonight.”

Sighing, he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the chair back. “Just send me a client. I’ll take it from there.”


	3. In Which the Game is Afoot

Later that evening Watson sat at his desk, his manuscript open before him, his pen ready. It occurred to him that perhaps he had taken on a harder task than he had first contemplated. Writing an actual mystery, a case, as Holmes had called it, was challenging. It meant clues and deductions, and evidence that would not be obvious to a reader, but seem brilliant when revealed. It meant characters and settings and things he had little experience in.

Holmes had told him to send a client, and he would figure out the rest, but Watson wasn’t entirely sure he could trust Holmes to behave like a proper hero. So far, he’d avoided any social life, been rude to clients, and lied to a constable about the holes in the wall. He was lucky neither of them had been arrested.

“Very well,” he said to himself.

He would write clients and send them to Holmes, and wait to see what he would deduce. He smiled. If some of those were attractive women in terrible predicaments, in need of a manly breast to lean on, Holmes might eventually find one of them to his liking.

He pulled out a fresh page and set to work. Holmes had made it clear that interesting cases did not arise at dinner parties, and that consulting with the police was what he liked best. He picked up his pen and began to write.

The story would begin with a letter arriving for Mr Sherlock Holmes containing information about a murder that had been committed the previous night in an empty house. A constable had noted a light on at two in the morning and suspected something amiss. He’d investigated, found the door of the house open and the body of a man in the front room. The victim was an American named Enoch J Drebber, from Cleveland, Ohio, in the United States—

Watson’s mind was spinning with ideas now. _Brag and bounce,_ he thought, chuckling. He would make it as difficult as he could and see what Mr Holmes could make of it. The man’s ego was clearly inflated; he fancied himself infallible, everyone else an idiot. _Let him solve this mystery._

Mr Drebber (he would be carrying cards or letters or something, so there would be no trouble identifying him) had not been robbed. Nor was there any wound or other evidence of foul play. How did he come to the empty house? For what purpose? Was he meeting someone? How had he wound up dead?

The letter was signed Tobias Gregson. This seemed like a good name for a police detective. _Solid and serious. Tall, with a moustache._ Watson fingered his upper lip, where the genesis of his own moustache was taking its time to come to fruition.

Gregson would beg Holmes’ help in solving the mystery. Holmes would discover clues of some sort which had been overlooked. There could be a message on the wall, perhaps a piece of jewellery. _A wedding ring, of course!_ A jilted lover, perhaps, or rival lovers in a quarrel over a beautiful young woman.

His wife stood at the door. “Come to bed, John.” She did not look happy.

“Of course, my dear. Just finishing up some… paperwork. Erm, patient… records.” He hastily tucked the manuscript into a drawer. “I’ll be right up.”

He fell asleep listening to her complain about how he’d ruined her dinner party.

 

When he arose for breakfast the following morning, Mary had already gone out, having stated her intention the previous evening of shopping for a new dress. The other ladies were wearing the latest Parisian-style bustle with an asymmetrical drape. Or some such thing. Watson rarely paid attention to finery. Perhaps he would have to begin noticing such things, if he was to describe female clients with some authenticity. He resolved to listen closely when she returned home and see what details he could learn.

As he consumed his second cup of tea, he could hear someone knocking. It was closing in on nine o’clock; his first patient wasn’t due at the surgery until ten.

“Mr Holmes, sir,” the maid said, ushering the detective into the dining room.

Holmes gave her a curt nod and began pouring himself a cup of tea.

“Your wife has gone out to spend your hard-earned money,” he told Watson.

“She has.”

Chuckling, Holmes helped himself to toast. “And you wonder why I avoid marriage.”

He had to concede that his hero had a point. “What brings you here?”

“A case.” He carefully spread butter across his toast, then helped himself to jam. “Any eggs left?”

The maid refilled his cup. “I’ll have cook make some more, sir.”

Watson noted the way she smiled at Holmes. At least he’d gotten that detail correct; for all his abrupt ways, the man was certainly appealing to females.

“Well, Holmes. You don’t seem very excited,” he pointed out. “Surely there is not a moment to be lost— I thought a case would have you chomping at the bit, ready to run off, shouting your battle cry, _the game’s afoot!_ ”

“Really, Watson.” Holmes licked jam off his fingers and began to butter a second piece of toast. “A bit dramatic, aren’t you? As for the case, I may unravel it with minimal effort, but you can be sure that Gregson and Lestrade will take all the credit.”

A plate of eggs was set before him; he sprinkled salt on them and began to eat.

“Minimal effort?” Watson felt a bit piqued. He’d gone out of his way to construct a tantalising mystery, and Holmes was acting as if he couldn’t be bothered to have a look. “A dead body in a room, no weapon, a mysterious message—”

Holmes held up a hand. “Had the room been locked, Watson, I might let these eggs go cold. I admit, I am as incurably lazy a devil as ever stood in shoe leather. A locked room, two bodies, no note, and perhaps then I would stir myself more energetically. But we shall go, Watson, and have a look.”

“You wish me to come?”

“But of course, if you have nothing better to do.” He rose and put on his overcoat.

“I have patients,” he began. “They—”

“They will understand. Doctors always have emergencies. Why, there’s hardly any point in making an appointment when they don’t show up until an hour later. Your patients will either wait, or they will leave and come back. Send a note around to the surgery saying you’ll be late.”

He did, and a minute later they were in a hansom, heading for the Brixton Road. As they rode, Watson thought about the dialogue he would write. “It was a good line, Holmes,” he said.

“Not saying it, Watson.”

“Not saying what?”

“The silly line you wrote. The game.”

“The game? What game? The game’s what?”

“Stop being obtuse. I’m not saying it.” Holmes frowned.

“Please. For me?”

They rode in silence for a few minutes. Finally Holmes sighed. “Watson. The game is… afoot.”

Watson grinned with excitement. “By Jove, Holmes! It is indeed.”

 

When they arrived at the scene, Watson assumed that Holmes would dash inside and begin examining the body. Instead, he lingered outside, looking at the pavement and the path in front of the house, his eyes on the ground.

When they entered the house, they were met by Gregson (tall, white-faced, flaxen-haired, notebook in hand, a bit obsequious, Watson noted), whom Holmes immediately began to berate. “You let a herd of policemen tramp over the pathway, Gregson! I hope you have already made a note of anything significant.”

Lestrade appeared then. Watson was surprised to see him out of uniform, dressed similarly to Gregson, but an obvious contrast in every other way. He seemed shorter and darker, leaner, and more ferret-like than the genial but generic constable who’d stopped by Baker Street to investigate gunshots.

“Stop staring, Watson,” Holmes whispered. “He’s been promoted. He and Gregson will now act as jealous of one another as a pair of professional beauties. At least that may provide some conflict in your story. And you should note that they are _foils_ to one another, meaning—”

“I get it, Holmes. Yes, they are quite opposite to one another. I suppose they will argue about what the mysterious note means.”

Holmes smiled. “They have not yet found it.”

Watson had seen dead men before, but none who seemed to have died in such a paroxysm of agony. The expression on the man’s face was horrid, as if he had seen some devil coming to take revenge. At once, he began imagining the backstory, how the killer had stalked Drebber across several continents—

“Facts, Watson,” Holmes murmured. “It is a capital mistake to plot your story before laying out the evidence.” Then he addressed the police. “There is blood here. Are you certain there is no wound?”

“Positive!” Both men agreed on this, at least.

“Presumably the murderer was wounded in a struggle.” He swiftly examined the body, as thoroughly as any doctor might. In a few minutes he stood, his investigation complete. “He has not been moved?” On receiving assurance that the body was positioned as they found it, he said, “Take him to the mortuary.”

As they lifted the body onto a stretcher, Watson was pleased to see Lestrade grab for the ring, which fell and rolled across the floor.

Lestrade gave a cry. “A woman has been here!”

Gregson shook his head. “This complicates matters.”

Holmes laughed. “Rather, it seems to make things simpler.” He requested an inventory of the man’s pockets. Gregson listed the items Watson had described in his story, with the omission of the business card and the addition of two letters, one addressed to Drebber, the other addressed to a Joseph Stangerson.

Watson frowned at Holmes, whom he suspected of tinkering with the plot. _Who is the author of this story, anyway?_ As for laying the evidence before the plot was thought out, it was clear that Sherlock Holmes knew little about writing.

“Just complicating things a bit,” Holmes said in a low voice. “You would have changed it in the next draft.”

Lestrade had been in the front room, but now stood at the doorway, looking very smug. “Mr Gregson, it appears that you missed something of highest importance. Did you forget to examine the other room— the walls, in particular?”

“A point for Lestrade,” Holmes muttered. He gave Watson a secret smile.

Watson smiled back, but suddenly realised that it might be too early to have revealed the name of the woman involved.

They all stood, staring at the letters: RACHE.

“What do you think?” Lestrade stood, hands on his hips, looking very self-satisfied.

“Well, _you_ found it.” Gregson sounded resentful. “Why don’t you tell us what it means?”

Lestrade gave him a superior look. “Obviously, the two men quarrelled over the woman. One was married to her, the other was jilted. Her name was Rachel.”

Yes, it was too soon, Watson thought. Now the other man would be found. He would spill the entire sordid tale of unrequited love, would confess to the murder, and be sent to gaol. The victim had tricked Rachel into a forced marriage. She thought her lover dead, and agreed to marry Drebber only because her father was in debt. But all this backstory would be anti-climatic. Revision would be necessary if he wanted to produce a novel out of this story.

Holmes had taken out his pocket lens and was examining the letters. He had a tape measure as well, and was determining the size of the letters and the distance between them. His examination took so long that Watson began to think that something else in his story had been altered.

The two inspectors were watching him with some apprehension. They each had a pet theory, Watson guessed, that would explain the body, the ring, and the message, and neither wished to be proven wrong by Holmes.

“Well?” said Gregson after some twenty minutes had passed.

Holmes sheathed his lens and tucked it into his pocket along with the tape. “Come, Watson. Just loose ends at this point. These gentlemen have no doubt figured this out.”

Watson frowned, perplexed. “Have they?” This was not how the revelation scene was meant to go. It was too soon, for one thing. And Sherlock Holmes would never give up an opportunity to explain his methods. “But Holmes, who is the murderer? Stangerson or Drebber? And how was he killed?”

“Poison. As for the murderer, I only know that he is taller than me, in his thirties, small feet for his height, square-toed boots, and smoked a Trichinopoly cigar. He has a ruddy complexion and rather long fingernails. He arrived with his victim in a cab drawn by a horse with a new shoe on its fore leg.” At the door already, he paused. “Oh, Lestrade, what is the name of the constable who found the body?”

“John Rance,” Lestrade read from his notebook. “46 Audley Court.”

“Come along, then, Doctor.” He swirled out the door.

Watson hurried after him. “You haven’t solved it then,” he said as they climbed into the cab.

“I deduced what you had written, but it wasn’t very difficult. I would rate the mystery a three, at most. It lacked complications. At this point, it may turn out to be a seven, if we’re lucky.”

Watson opened his mouth to protest that _he_ was the author, not Holmes, but decided it was pointless to argue with a fictional character. Especially when the case seemed to be going so well. “Then you already know the solution.”

“Not at all, doctor. I merely provided more avenues for exploration. You said it is to be a novel, I believe?”

“Yes, I expect there will be several chapters.” He suddenly felt very hungry. “Perhaps some lunch, Holmes, before we visit Constable Rance?”

He waved his hand with a dismissive gesture. “I already had breakfast.”

“But it is nearly noon.”

“Then perhaps you should have written more lunches into your story. I do not eat when—” He sighed. “When the game is afoot,” he muttered. “Can’t you think of a better battle cry? Perhaps something about _eliminating the impossible, etc_. Or _Crime is Common; Logic is Rare!”_

“Not pithy enough.” Watson scowled. “Mine is pithy. It is a call to action. Unlike yours, which is just boasting how clever you are.”

Holmes shrugged and stared out the cab window. “Well, no more fainting women, if you please. The fair sex is your department, Watson.”

Watson smiled. “What about Rachel?”

“She is dead, and her name is not Rachel. The word on the wall was RACHE, which is German for revenge. The murderer came seeking vengeance from the man who is responsible for her death.”

“Drebber or Stangerson?”

“Drebber was married to the lady. The other man was his rival. But a third man killed our corpse, I think.”

“And where is the murderer?”

“That, my dear Watson, is what we must discover.”

 

Realising that he had neglected his practice for an entire day, Watson returned home. Mary gave him an icy look when he came through the door. She seemed perpetually peeved with him these days. It was not only the moustache that had earned her pique; on his desk he found a stack of unpaid bills.

“If you would see to your patients,” she said, “perhaps we would not be in debt.”

The maid entered before he could think of a reply. “A gentleman to see you, sir.”

Expecting Holmes, he walked into the sitting room and found a man he’d never seen.

“I waited at your surgery.” He had an American accent, Watson perceived.

He ushered him into his office and closed the door. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m dying, doctor.” The man gave him a peculiar smile. “It’s my heart. I only need to know how long I have.”

Watson listened to the man’s chest with his stethoscope. The man was correct; his heart was beating weakly and irregularly. He could, in fact, die at any moment. “An aneurysm, I think.”

“Yes. There is just one more thing I need to accomplish before dying. Do I have weeks, or just days?”

“Impossible to tell with accuracy. The fact that you are still walking and breathing is almost incredible. I would advise you to get your affairs in order, if there are things you wish to complete. Any excitement or minor exertion could take you away in a moment.”

The man nodded. “Thank you, doctor. I will complete my business tonight.”

“What is your name, if I may ask?”

“Jefferson Hope.”

After Hope left, Watson sat in his office for a few minutes, thinking how life can go on and on, until suddenly Fate produces a pair of shears and cuts the cord.

Mary stood at the door. “I hope you charged him enough. It’s after your hours.”

“I did not charge him,” Watson said, closing his eyes.

“Why not?”

“Because he is dying, and… it didn’t seem right to take money simply to confirm a death sentence.”

 

He returned to Baker Street in the morning, hoping that Holmes had figured out where the murderer was hiding.

“I have visited Constable Rance,” Holmes said. He was draped across his chair, in bohemian fashion, wearing a mouse-coloured dressing gown. “He said a drunken man came to the house shortly after he found the corpse.”

“And what might that mean?”

At that moment, they heard Mrs Hudson conversing with a man at the door, then a single set of footsteps as the visitor ascended the stairs.

“Lestrade,” said Holmes. “He has news for us.”

The inspector told them that they had found Stangerson at a hotel, but he was dead, stabbed through the heart.

“Not poison?” Watson asked.

Lestrade held up a small box. “I suspect that’s what these are.”

Holmes took the box and studied the pills with interest. “Shall we experiment?” he asked Watson.

“You’re going to analyse them?”

“Simpler to try them on someone. Is there anyone you’d like murdered, Watson?” He chuckled.

Both Lestrade and Watson looked at him in horror. And for some reason, Watson found himself thinking of his wife. Perhaps Lestrade was thinking of someone, too, but if so, it was probably Sherlock Holmes.

Lestrade shook his head. “You can’t just give a pill to a person just to try it out, Mr Holmes.”

“Well, if it’s someone who’s already close to dying, I think it might be counted a mercy.”

When neither Watson nor Lestrade agreed, he sighed. “Mrs Turner next door has an ancient Scottish terrier, I think. Mrs Hudson told me she was thinking of putting the poor animal out of its misery. Perhaps she would let us help her with that.”

The dog was, indeed, ancient. Watson insisted on listening to its heart and lungs before he agreed that the animal was close to death. Mrs Turner and Mrs Hudson made a fuss for a few minutes, stroking the dog’s head and saying soothing things to it. Holmes waited, a bit impatient. Mrs Hudson brought a glass of milk to dissolve the pill in, and Holmes fed it to the dog.

Nothing happened.

“How long will it take?” asked Mrs Turner.

“It should have worked already.” Holmes took the second pill, dissolved it in milk, and gave it to the dog. At once, the animal began to convulse. In less than a minute, it was dead.

The women wept and consoled one another, making more fuss over poor Angus or Archie, or whatever name Watson would eventually decide on. After a decent interval, they took its small body away, still lamenting.

The arrival of another visitor was heralded by bare feet pelting up the stairs. A small, dirty street Arab burst into the flat.

“Mr Holmes, I got your cab,” the boy announced.

Watson frowned. “Who’s this?”

“A recurring character,” Holmes replied. “Send him up, Billy. I’ll need help with my luggage.”

Exasperated, Watson watched the boy run down the stairs and out the front door. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere. I simply needed a cab.”

“What for?”

Holmes gave him an _isn’t it obvious_ look and nodded at a large trunk sitting by the desk. “For that. Ah, here’s the man!” He gestured at the trunk. “If you would be so good to take the trunk down, Mister—”

“Mister Hope!” Watson cried. “What are you doing here? Holmes, this man can’t possibly lift a trunk! Why he’s barely—”

Jefferson Hope nodded. “Morning, Doctor. I got all my business settled last night.”

Before Watson could stop him, he’d leaned over to lift the trunk. As he did, Holmes clapped handcuffs on him. “Jefferson Hope, I arrest you for the murders of Joseph Stangerson and Earnest Dobbins.”

“Drebber,” Watson said.

“I admit it. I killed them both, and no men deserved it more.” Jefferson Hope smiled. “I guess you’re wondering why, though, Mr Holmes.”

“Please.” Holmes sank into his chair and lit his pipe. “Do tell us.”

“It’s a rather long story,” Hope began. “And a most interesting one. Even you could not guess what happened twenty years ago—” But before he could begin his tale, he fell to the floor, dead.

“Aneurysm,” said Watson. He lay his hand on the man’s neck to be sure he was really dead. “Died instantly.”

“That’s inconvenient,” said Holmes, stuffing tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. “I was looking forward to hearing his long tale of revenge.”

“At least he confessed,” Lestrade said. “But I guess we’ll never know why he did it.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Holmes lit a match, pulled on his pipe. “Perhaps Doctor Watson will reveal his motivation to us.”

Lestrade scratched his head. “How would he know?”

“Hope visited his surgery last night, if I’m not mistaken, wanting to know his prognosis.”

“He came to my home,” said Watson. “I didn’t know he was the murderer, but I listened to his heart and told him he could die at any moment. He said he had one piece of business to finish, and then he was content to die.”

“Killing Stangerson?” Lestrade asked. “But why?”

Holmes smiled at Watson. “Doctor, please tell us the story of this tangled skein, this scarlet study, if you would.”

“But I don’t—” Watson began. Sighing, he sank down into the squashy red chair. Lestrade sat on the client chair, and Holmes blew out a cloud of blue smoke.

“It started twenty years ago, when a little girl named Lucy was stranded in the Salt Lake Valley of Utah with a man named John Ferrier. They had no food or water, and were just waiting to die…”

Two hours later, the tale was told, the body had been taken to the mortuary, and Lestrade had gone back to the station to write up his report. Mrs Hudson had taken Mrs Turner out for dinner to cheer her up about the dead Scotty. Watson and Holmes sat smoking in silence.

“Really, Watson. Murderous Mormons?”

“I’ve always wanted to visit the American west,” he replied. “It was a good story, don’t you think? A true study in scarlet.”

“And the credit for solving it will go to Lestrade and Gregson.”

“But— you did all the work! They had very little to do with it!”

Holmes voice was bitter. “What you do in this world is a matter of no consequence. The question is, what can you make people believe that you have done.” He turned to Watson, smiling more brightly. “Never mind, old boy. It was a most interesting case. Simple as it was—”

“Simple!”

“Three days, Watson. A few observations, several obvious deductions, and I had my hands on the criminal.”

“That is true,” replied the author. “And in another three days, you will be shooting holes in Mrs Hudson’s walls again.”

Holmes blew out a cloud of smoke. “Then you must write me a new case by that time. If not— well, the wall has it coming.”


	4. In Which Women Steal All the Scenes

It took Watson a few days to write up _A Study in Scarlet_ , as he had decided to call it. All told, it ran more chapters than he had initially thought possible— fourteen, in all. Several chapters were devoted to the backstory about John Ferrier and the Mormons, which he was very proud of. Sherlock had scoffed, but setting part of the story in the American West would interest readers. It was a good story. He would spend some time polishing it, and then submit it to a periodical for publication.

There were still a few points about which he was unsure. Holmes would probably think him an idiot, but he would ask. He tucked the manuscript into his drawer and slipped on his overcoat.

“I’m going out,” he announced for his wife’s benefit. “House calls.”

She was busy scolding the maid over water spots on the crystal and merely looked up and nodded.

 

“He’s out,” Mrs Hudson reported laconically. She folded her arms across her ample bosom and waited. “Will you wait?”

“Where has he gone?”

“I could not say, sir.”

“When will he be back?”

“I could not say, sir.”

“Did he say anything at all when he left?”

“He said, _I’m going out._ ”

He noted that her expression did not change. She was a brick wall.

“Mrs Hudson,” he said. “Have I insulted you? Has something I said annoyed you?”

“I could not say, sir. I’m only the housekeeper.”

“I see.” He vaguely remembered describing her role in the story. Bringing the breakfast and tea up, occasionally dusting, seeing to the laundry. A flat character, useful for delivering messages, screening visitors, and making sure Holmes ate occasionally and didn’t blow up the flat. Perhaps that was the problem. “Is it Mr Holmes that you find objectionable, then?”

“I could not say, sir.”

He might have made her too flat, he decided. More like a caricature than a person. Sherlock needed a landlady who would also be his housekeeper, but she need not be quite so laconic. He would revise her, he decided, and make her a bit more talkative.

“Would it be all right if I waited for him to return?”

“As you like, sir.”

He climbed the stairs, wishing that he’d described a flat on the ground floor. The upper floor windows were good for surveillance of the street, but there were a lot of steps to climb. He opened the door and went into the flat. The red chair, which he’d begun to think of as his own, was empty of newspapers, books, and files, but he sat in Holmes’ chair, settling into the contours of the detective’s lanky body, putting himself in his hero’s mind.

Holmes needed a character to keep him right, he decided. Perhaps it wasn’t Irene Adler, but there had to be someone who could understand, even appreciate this difficult man.

 _What is the opposite of Sherlock Holmes?_ he thought. A boring person of average intelligence and few eccentricities. A man whose mood did not fluctuate between frenetic activity and bored indolence. A man who would pay the bills, deal with Mrs Hudson, see that he ate and slept and did not treat the Yard with too much contempt. Someone who could jolly him into better behaviour while not dulling his brilliance. Holmes would not put up with dull minds. This character would not be luminous, himself; he would be more of a conductor of light.

Now, if he could just make this character female, his problem would be solved. Holmes did not enjoy the company of women, but if he found the right woman—

“Hello, Doctor.”

He looked up to find Irene Adler looking at him from the window sill. She was wearing boy’s clothing and had apparently just climbed up the side of the building. He wasn’t sure how she’d done this, but if necessary he could go back and supply a fire escape staircase.

“What are you doing here?” he asked her. He hadn’t any use for Adler at the moment; Holmes was right about her, he had to admit. People tend to fall in love with opposites, not people who look and act like oneself. Her exact role in the story, the dynamic she would have with Holmes when he introduced her into the plot, he had yet to determine.

“I’m breaking into his flat.” She gave him an _isn’t it obvious_ look. “I’ve been trying to decide what to steal. That’s where you left off. Don’t you remember?”

“Look, Miss Adler.” He was aware that he sounded petulant, but he didn’t care. “I won’t be needing you for a while. Perhaps you could go back to that party and return the necklace. I’m thinking you’ll be a blackmailer when I write you into the story, so perhaps you should prepare yourself for that. Until then—”

“I’m stuck in a loop,” she finished. “I climbed through the window and you left me here. I keep coming back to see if you’ve finished my story, but other than sparring verbally with Holmes, it’s boring.”

“Do you want me to re-write your character? I can’t guarantee his response, but would you like to fall in love with him?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then you’ll have to wait. I’ve got one story completed, but you’re not in it. If you’ll leave now, I think I can promise you an affair with someone important. Foreign royalty, perhaps.”

“Boring,” she replied, sliding off the window sill and walking towards the hearth. She dropped into the squashy chair and crossed her legs like a man. “I think I’d like to steal things. No affairs, though, royal or otherwise.”

It was maddening how much she sounded like Holmes. “You wouldn’t happen to know where Holmes is, would you?”

She shook her head. “I think he’s working on a case.”

“How can that be? I haven’t written him one yet.” He thought of his manuscript, sitting in his drawer. Perhaps he should get started on a new story, worry about finalising _A Study in Scarlet_ later. “I’ve got to be going. You’d better run along, too. Holmes won’t like finding you here.”

With a scowl, she rose and swung a leg over the window sill. “I’m an interesting character, Doctor. I don’t deserve to be a mere love interest. Give me my own story.”

“We’ll see,” he replied. He might have to consider it; the woman was definitely trouble. Perhaps he could move her to Australia or New York, just to get her out of the country.

He called out his goodbye to Mrs Hudson as he went out the front door. She sounded a bit less sullen, which he attributed to his intention to make her more amiable.

It was late afternoon, rapidly darkening and cold. He had decided to save the expense of a cab by walking, and the exercise soon warmed him up. He thought about his new mystery. This one certainly ought to have a winning female client. The case must be interesting enough to keep Holmes’ attention. A woman with no family, a mysterious package, a secret pact among convicts, a treasure map… He spent the hour’s walk plotting it.

He arrived home in time for dinner, and called out to Mary that he was home. There was no reply, but from his study he could hear sounds. At the door he stopped in horror. Mary was kneeling before the hearth, feeing sheets of foolscap into the flames.

“No!” he cried out, rushing towards her. “My manuscript!”

She had just added the last page to the flames. He watched it curl and darken, turning to ash. The last word on the page was _Holmes…_

“Oh, God! What have you done?”

“I’ve saved us from ruin.” Her voice was calm, her face like stone. “You are not a writer, John. You are a doctor, and if you want to maintain us in a respectable life, you had better focus on your patients. You’ve not been into your surgery in three days now. How are we to pay these bills?” She took the stack of statements in her hand, shook them in his face. “You have one responsibility, John. Seeing that we have no children yet, that is me. When we married, you promised to provide for me. As far as I can see, you are still entertaining the ridiculous notion that you can write a book. I am saving us from poverty. Give up this foolishness, now.”

“I was ready to send it out.” He stared forlornly at the embers. “It was just a beginning, but I could have—”

Her face hardened. “No, John. You couldn’t have. I read some pages of your story. It is inane drivel. Your main character is a self-centred, ill-mannered man of no class or style. He consorts with policemen and criminals. Shameful! To think I married a man who could imagine such doings— murders, kidnappings, dead bodies!” She shuddered. “You had better put these ideas out of your head right now, John Watson. You have deceived me, but I am giving you a chance to do the right thing.” She turned and walked out of the room.

Crushed, he felt tears come to his eyes— not for Mary, whom he had disappointed, but for the smouldering remains of his story. It was as if his entire world, all that was meaningful to him, had been incinerated. He would have to re-write it, he decided. Sherlock would assist him, remember all the details.

A sudden thought shook him to his boots. Irene Adler had been trapped in his manuscript, endlessly climbing through Holmes’ window and looking for something to steal. What if Sherlock Holmes lived only in those pages that now lay in ashes? What if he could not recreate him? What if his next version of the story was different enough that whatever magic had brought him to life had died in the flames as well?

As he watched his hopes die, he heard the window slide open. He turned around to see Irene Adler climbing over the sill.

“Why do you keep doing that?” Somehow, seeing Irene again did not reassure him. If one character could have survived being incinerated, he wished it hadn’t been Irene. “Is that the only way you can enter a room?”

She looked annoyed. “Maybe you should write me entering a room in a different, more conventional way, then.”

“You were at the party. Surely you walked through a door to get there.”

“How would I know? You began the scene with the party underway. Holmes got to enter through the door— late, of course— but I was already there. He made quite an entrance, very dramatic. I wanted to slap him, but you’ve made his cheekbones so sharp I was afraid of cutting myself. As for me, it is almost as if I was born in that room. I have no backstory. Nothing. I am just a beautiful distraction for Sherlock Holmes, who is not the least bit interested in me.”

“So, you have no desire to be a foil for him? I think I could tweak the story so that happens.”

She gave an impatient sigh. “No. I have no interest in being a foil. I prefer to be a main character— in a story of my own.”

“How about a villainess?”

Another sigh. “I agree that your story needs a fully-fledged villain, someone worthy of Sherlock Holmes, but whoever that is will eventually die. They have to. You’re so in love with Holmes that you could never kill him—”

“What? In love? I assure you, Miss Adler—”

“Never mind,” she said. “What you need to worry about now is that woman.”

“What woman?”

“The one who just burned our story.”

“My wife, you mean.”

“Yes. Can’t you write her out? Or turn her into a villain. Anything. I just don’t fancy having all my scenes burned— if and when you write them.”

“Mary isn’t actually a character. And you’re presuming that I will write more scenes.”

“I am. You’re too deeply invested to let this story die. And you like me.” She gave him a beautiful smile, one that revealed just how flirtatious she really was.

“But what about Holmes?” He thought about what it meant that Irene Adler was standing in his study, talking to him. If she hadn’t disappeared with her pages, perhaps Holmes was still alive— if fictional characters could be thought of as living.

She rolled her eyes. “Your story isn’t dead. It’s still in your brain, isn’t it?”

It was in his brain. He had imagined it, and it had become real for him. He could take it wherever he wanted. Mary could burn his manuscripts, publishers could reject them, but his characters were already real.

Irene sat on the window sill, one leg in the room, the other dangling outside. “So, get on with it, John Watson.” And then she was gone.

 

He wrote late into the night. The first story, A Study in Scarlet, he could rewrite later. Right now, the muse was speaking and he needed to write his second story. As the sun began to rise, he had it all roughed out. Much editing would be needed, but he had the essence of it.

He put his new manuscript inside a portfolio, grabbed his Gladstone bag, and went out the front door. He supposed that he might need to return at some point for clothing and other necessities, but he had made up his mind. If forced to choose between his wife and his creation, he would remain a writer.

As he walked down Baker Street, he felt a sense of elation. Holmes and he would work the new case together, and he would write it, like the first. He had already decided on a name: _The Sign of the Four_. The female character needed some fleshing out, but she would come along, as the others had.

He bounded up the steps, filled with confidence, and opened the door to the flat.

What met his eyes filled him with a new kind of horror. Holmes sat in his armchair, his arm extended, was holding a hypodermic syringe over his arm, preparing to inject himself with some substance.

“Holmes, no!” he cried.

The detective looked up, languid and unconcerned. “Hello, Watson.”

“What are you doing?”

“Relieving my boredom,” he replied, thrusting the needle into his arm and pressing the piston down.

“No, no, no!” He pulled at his hair. “Is it morphine or cocaine?” 

“Cocaine. A seven-percent solution. Would you care to try it?”

“Absolutely not!”

He looked up as he pulled the needle out and pressed a piece of gauze over the puncture wound. “As you wish. I suppose you think it has a bad effect, but it is actually quite stimulating. At the moment, I do not care about the physical cost. My mind rebels at stagnation. Give me a problem. Give me work. Then I will not need artificial stimulants.”

“But I have written a new case for you.” He felt tears start in his eyes for the second time that day, again for Sherlock Holmes. “You must be prepared for this one. I swear, it will baffle you. You don’t need the cocaine— I promise I won’t neglect you again. You shall have interesting problems to solve, my dear man.” He would write this scene out, he decided. Holmes would _not_ be a drug addict.

The detective smiled genially, either because he felt happy at the news of a case, or perhaps because of the drug’s influence. “I appreciate your effort, Watson. I hope to once more dazzle you with my powers of deduction.”

Watson had opened his mouth to reply, when a crisp knock sounded at the door, and Mrs Hudson entered, bearing a card upon the brass salver. “A young lady for you, sir,” she said, addressing Holmes.

“Ask her to step in,” he said to Mrs Hudson. “Doctor, I think you should remain.”

He had written the client as a woman of about five-and-twenty, fair, with blond hair and blue eyes. He had not made her conventionally pretty, as beauty seemed to have no effect on Holmes. Instead, he tried to make her refined, sensitive, and amiable. His hope was that the detective would find her a worthy foil, with a nature as sweet as his was piquant.

She entered and made a little curtsy. “Mr Holmes.” Her voice was low— and somewhat familiar. “I am pleased to meet you at last. My name is Mary Morstan.”

“No,” he whispered. He could _not_ have written his wife into the story. The character’s name was Violet… Violet something… “Why are you here?” he gasped, rising from his chair as if to bolt.

“For your help,” she said sweetly. “Please stay, Doctor.”

He felt his vision blur, the room spin, and the floor rise up to meet him.


	5. In Which We Cut to the Chase

“A singular case,” Holmes said.

Watson opened his eyes. Miss Morstan, aka Mary Watson, was sitting in his chair, talking to Sherlock Holmes.

“Ah, Watson, good to have you back. Miss Morstan has been telling me the most interesting story.”

He stood up from the sofa, reeling a bit, and addressed the detective. “A word with you, Holmes.”

He raised his eyebrows at Watson, smiled at Ms Morstan. “We’ll just be a moment.”

Since there was no other place in the flat to talk, they stepped onto the landing.

“This is an imposter,” he said quietly. “I do not know how she managed it, but she is, in fact, my wife.”

Holmes looked thoughtful. “Interesting. Did you base her character on your wife’s personality?”

“Absolutely not,” he replied. “This character is meant to be your foil. I even made her clever at deducing things. And unlike you, she is very organised, and able to charm people rather than make them angry.”

“Really.” He closed his eyes and tapped an index finger to his lips. “And you have no idea how your wife got into this story?”

“I named the character Violet… Violet Somebody. I forget. She was meant to have red hair. A bit saucy, but very courageous. You would like her.”

“And she is my foil?”

“Well, obviously that cannot work now.” He threw his hands up in a gesture of futility. “You must turn down her request for help. Send her away.”

“I already agreed to help her. And she has a treasure map.” He smiled hopefully. “A treasure map, Watson! The game’s afoot!”

“Well, tell her something has come up. You’re too busy.”

“It is an interesting case, Watson. I’m actually quite curious as to how it will work out,” Holmes said. “No hints, though. Let me unravel it.”

He clenched his fists. “This is impossible! I will not have you helping the woman who just burned all of my stories, Holmes. It is quite beyond the pale.”

“Oh, come, old fellow!” He chuckled. “Where’s your sense of adventure? The game’s afoot!”

Watson winced. Perhaps Holmes did need a new tag line. Controlling himself with difficulty, he said, “I’m going to burn the story. I’ll write another one with Mormons.”

“No!” cried Holmes. “No more Mormons— I want to solve this one, Watson. I specifically didn’t deduce the ending so that I might be surprised.” He moved toward the door. When his hand was on the doorknob, he turned. “Don’t wait up. Miss Morstan and I will be on our way to the home of Thaddeus Sholto. Oh, don’t look that way, Watson. It’s not as if I’m going to fall in love with her.”

He simply could not let Holmes loose to deal with his wife, who might possibly seduce him. If Mary was as duplicitous as he suspected, she would stop at nothing to ruin his story. Though he did not think that Holmes would respond to flirtation, he had written the character specifically to enchant him, to lower his resistance to feminine wiles. And even if Mary did not play true to the part, she had her own way of manipulating men. After all, she had seduced Watson.

“I’m going with you. I will deal with her.”

“No, no,” Holmes replied airily. “I couldn’t think of it. You’re angry, and dead-set against helping her.”

They were all playing parts, he decided. Mary’s game was to show him what a fool Sherlock Holmes was by seducing him. He wasn’t sure what Holmes’ game was. Perhaps he cared only about avoiding boredom. His own game was to make sure she did not win Sherlock Holmes, even if it meant seducing her himself. He followed Holmes back into the sitting room.

The detective smiled at Mary. “Let’s see that treasure map again.”

Mary was calmly sipping a cup of tea that seemed to have materialised from nowhere. Holmes never made the tea, so she must have made it herself. “When I received the last pearl, the sender said I’d been wronged.” For some reason, she looked at Watson. “I found the map in my father’s desk after he died.”

Holmes was poring over the map. “Jonathan Small, Mahomet Singh, Abdullah Khan and Dost Akbar. Do you know any of these names?”

“Not at all. I assume they were people my father knew, though I never heard him mention any of them.”

“What do you intend to do, Miss Morstan?” Holmes asked, still holding the map.

“Why, that is what I want to ask you!” she exclaimed. Her blue eyes widened, her lashes fluttered.

Watson rolled his eyes.

Holmes cleared his throat. “We shall most certainly go to meet this person, whoever he is. He said you might bring two men. I shall go, of course. And Dr Watson is the very man to accompany us.”

“But will you come?” she asked Watson with a small worried pout. “Would you be so kind?”

He nodded. _Play your role,_ he told himself. “I should be proud and happy if I can be of any service.”

“You are both very kind,” she said, her eyes on Holmes.

 

Miss Morstan arrived at six o’clock sharp in a cab. They headed to the home of Thaddeus Sholto, the son of Major Sholto, who had died several years earlier.

Thaddeus was a peculiar man. Watson had described his character in detail and was now proud of his eccentric appearance— small in stature, with a high, round head fringed with red hair. He was an odd, jerky man.

“He has a twin brother, Holmes,” Watson whispered.

Holmes was not impressed. “Will the plot hinge on mistaking one for the other? A bit cliche, don’t you think?”

“No hints,” Watson snapped.

Sholto told them the story of the pearls, recounted how Captain Morstan, long in ill health, had succumbed to a coronary thrombosis during a quarrel over the treasure.

Hearing this information, Mary paled and pretended to faint into the arms of Sherlock Holmes, who at once handed her off to Watson. The doctor, much aggrieved, fanned the lady and told her to stop being _a bloody fool._

“You’re the fool,” she hissed at him.

“Get out of my story!”

“I beg your pardon,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Can we get back to the plot? I’d like to summarise what Mr Sholto has shared with us. There have been enough details thrown at us that I think the reader will appreciate a brief summary.” He gave them both a severe look. “We now know the fate of Arthur Morstan. John Sholto, father of Thaddeus and Bartholomew, was a partner with Morstan in an enterprise involving a treasure. Sholto brought it to England. When Morstan came to claim his share in 1878, they quarrelled, and Morstan, suffering from a weak heart, died. Fearing he would be blamed for his death, Sholto concealed the body with help from his Indian manservant. The treasure was hidden, and Sholto never used it, but on his death bed begged his sons to share it with Morstan’s orphan daughter.” He nodded at Mary, who smiled flirtatiously. Holmes did not note her look, however, and continued the summary. “Just as he was about to reveal the treasure’s location, he saw something at the window that so terrified him that he died on the spot.” He turned to Watson. “That was a bit predictable, old man. Rather cliche that he died without revealing the location. Think it through next time. At any rate, a note was found on his body: _The Sign of the Four._ Good title, that. Make a note, Watson. And though the brothers have made every effort to find the treasure, they have not been successful. Thaddeus has been sending the pearls to Miss Morstan since the death of his father, hoping to atone for his death by giving her a portion of the treasure.”

“Yes, yes,” said Thaddeus Sholto. “But just recently, the treasure has been discovered at Pondicherry Lodge, our family home, where my brother Bartholomew still lives. Now we must talk to him and see that the treasure is properly divided among us. The value of the jewels alone is half a million sterling.”

Now Mary smiled with satisfaction.

 

They drove to Norwood and knocked on the door of Pondicherry Lodge. As they waited on the street, Watson peered at the grounds, which he had not yet described in his rough draft.

“It looks as though all the moles in England have been let loose in the grounds,” he muttered.

“Treasure hunters,” said Holmes. “Six years of digging— no wonder it looks like a gravel pit.”

The door opened.

“Oh, Mr Thaddeus, sir—” cried the housekeeper. “I am so glad you have come! Something terrible has happened!”

They followed her up to Bartholomew’s room. Thaddeus was so agitated that his teeth were actually chattering. On the second landing they paused.

“The ladies had best remain here while we see what has happened,” said Holmes.

Mary stomped her foot with impatience. “Do you men think I am so frail?”

“You’re supposed to be a bit sensitive,” Watson reminded her. “You might faint.”

The look she gave him said that there would be no more fainting in this story— except perhaps for Thaddeus, who seemed extremely agitated and would probably take the first opportunity to collapse.

Once Watson and Holmes had broken the locked door down, they found Bartholomew dead, still sitting in his chair with the most ghastly and inscrutable smile on his face. Holmes pointed out what appeared to be a thorn in his neck.

“Very good, Doctor,” he said. “Dart from a blow-gun. Vegetable alkaloid. Nice detail. Will there be pygmies as well?”

“Perhaps,” he said, avoiding Holmes’ eyes. “Or maybe an Andaman islander.”

The treasure was gone, stolen by whoever had killed Bartholomew. When they climbed up into the garret, Holmes found the trap door to the roof, whereby the murderous thief had escaped.

“Aha!” said the detective. “I was right— look at these small footprints all over the floor. Your small islander has made these.”

Watson tried to cover his disappointment. “Hm. You were meant to think a child had done this, Holmes.”

“Elementary,” he said. As he was meant to do, he gave a dismissive smile and went to meet the police, who naturally arrested the wrong person— Thaddeus Sholto. For good measure, they arrested the entire house staff.

Mary refused to be escorted home like a sensitive heroine, so she and Watson went to find the dog Holmes had requested, a curious mongrel named Toby.

“You’re not the author,” he reminded his wife. “You’re supposed to be a character, so act as you’ve been written.”

“I could write a better story than this.” She shrugged. “You write women as if we’re all wilting flowers. Why must you continually underestimate me, John?”

“That’s Dr Watson to you, Miss Morstan,” he replied, silently vowing to revise the story. “Just play your role.”

They brought Toby back to Holmes.

“What’s the dog for?” Mary asked. “Are you going to track someone?” She gave her husband a sidelong look that said, _don’t underestimate me._

“Our two thieves have escaped,” he said. “One of them has stepped in creosote on the roof, which will make him easy to track. The dog will follow their trail.”

All of these activities had used up the night, and the sun was just beginning to rise as they set out, the dog straining at its leash.

After two hours of trudging up hill and down dale, out of the rural areas and into the city, they followed the dog’s lead. Toby was not distracted until he suddenly came to a halt at an intersection of streets. He paced back and forth, sniffing the ground, whining, but going no further.

“Confound it all!” the detective growled. “What is wrong with the dog?”

Watson smiled. “Perhaps they took a cab.”

“Not possible,” Holmes snapped.

He shrugged. “They might have stopped here for a while.”

Just then Toby took off. They followed until they came to a timber yard, where they dog raced through shavings and dust until he found a large barrel full of—

“Creosote!” Holmes yelled. He gave Watson a black look. “Red herring?” He walked out of the timber yard, muttering about plot devices.

They followed the trail back to where Toby had stopped, confused. He took the true path this time, leading them down to the river.

“They’ve taken a boat,” said Holmes.

Mary put her foot down. “I’m not getting on a boat. This is all nonsense, John. The dog is doing all the work, and you two are just running behind. Next, you’ll get some grubby boys to do legwork for you, and ultimately it will look like a dead-end. Holmes will brood, then go out on a mysterious errand, but actually he will be looking for the boat. He will return, disguised as an old seaman, and you won’t recognise him until he reveals himself. More tiresome waiting. Can we simply cut to the chase?”

Holmes looked at Watson, who shrugged. They cut to the chase.

 

Hours later, the three of them were back in the sitting room at 221B Baker Street, along with Inspector Jones and his captive, the one-legged man, Jonathan Small. The child-sized companion, Tonga, had been shot by Holmes and Watson just as he prepared to blow a dart at them. The exciting boat race would have to be described in excruciating detail, Watson decided. Small provided backstory and then was taken away by Jones.

“Is that the treasure, then?” Mary asked, looking at the heavy iron box that they had taken from the _Aurora._ Her face was eager.

“Well, Mary,” Watson said. “You will be among the richest women in England now. I dare say you can do better than a surgeon who neglects his patients to scribble fiction.”

“Indeed,” she said. “Or an eccentric, misogynistic detective.” She smiled. “But I do owe much to you and Mr Holmes. All’s well that ends well. Let’s open it, shall we?”

The key having been tossed overboard, Watson grabbed the poker and pried it with masculine energy until it opened with a loud snap.

They all stood, silently looking into the box. It was empty.

Mary drew a deep breath. “No! It’s not supposed to be empty!” She turned on Watson with rabid eyes. “You did this— a plot twist, I suppose! No, no, no! Without the treasure, the entire story is for nothing!”

“You weren’t supposed to end up a wealthy heiress,” he said. “If you were so wealthy, you could not marry Sherlock Holmes.”

“What?” Holmes snapped to attention. “Marry _me_?”

Mary shook her head. “Absolutely not.”

“But you were supposed to be his foil, you see,” Watson explained. “That is how the story ends. You marry Holmes and become the first couple to solve crimes together.”

“You must rewrite the ending,” she said.

Holmes sank into his chair. “You may as well, Watson. I have no intention of marrying her.”

Watson sputtered. “But— but— you’re her foil!”

The window slid open.

“No, I’m her foil,” said Irene Adler. Still dressed as a boy, she swung a leg over the sill. “We’re going to New York to start our own consulting detective firm. Mary will write up our adventures.”

“Lady detectives won’t be in vogue for another forty years, at least,” Holmes pointed out.

“You wanted me to write her out!” Watson objected. “You were angry that she burned my story!”

Irene shrugged. “She wrote me into a new story.” She smiled at Mary. “I don’t think we really need the treasure, do we?”

Mary smiled back. “I suppose not. You’re bold and full of esoteric knowledge, and I’m saucy and clever at deducing things. We’ll make a fortune solving crimes.”

“Then let’s go, shall we?” Irene held out her hand. Mary took it and prepared to follow her through the window.

“Wait!” Watson raised his hands. “Then who’s going to marry Sherlock Holmes?”

Irene gave Holmes a cat-like smile. “Somebody loves you.” Then she nodded at Watson. “Goodbye, Doctor. Thank you for creating me.”

Watson stared at the window for a while after the women disappeared. “Well, this is just fine!” He gave a sigh of exasperation and glared at Holmes. “Why must you make everything so difficult?”

“You wanted me to marry your wife?”

“No! I mean, why do you dislike women so much?”

“Women are never entirely to be trusted, Watson. Not the best of them.” He nodded at the window. “Not even such fine creatures as those two. No more love interests, Doctor.”

“What about your foil? You must have a worthy contrasting character!”

“My dear,” he said, laying his hands upon Watson’s shoulders and gazing at him fondly. “Neither of those women are my foil. You are.”

Speechless, he stared up at his creation. “I am… your foil?”

“Look at how well we work together. We fuss at one another, argue good-naturedly, and though you are not unintelligent, you always provide me with an opportunity to explain my deductions. And we both love it when the game is afoot!”

He smiled. “Yes, we do. But I am not a fictional character, Holmes. I can’t very well write myself into your story.”

“Give me your hand, my boy.” Holmes took the proffered hand and laid it on his own chest. Watson felt the detective’s heart beating. “I am no longer fictional, Watson. You have brought me to life.A hundred years from now, people will see you as my biographer. There will be a statue of me near our flat, and a museum with a gift shop where people will buy deerstalker hats and pocket lenses and boxes of tea with my picture on them.”

“But… love? Holmes, a doctor with a failing practice is not a character people want to read about. They want romance... they want…”

Before he could decide what readers wanted, Sherlock Holmes had wrapped his arms around Watson and was stopping his mouth with a kiss. It was a very real, warm, tantalising kiss, completely unlike any he’d ever experienced.

“What was that?” he gasped.

Holmes smiled. “Plot twist.”

“Plot… twist,” he repeated. “You’ve re-written my story.”

“No, Watson. You did that. You couldn’t have brought me to life without loving me. And I love you as well. There is your romance.”

“But— I can’t write that into my story! Readers won’t— Publishers don’t—”

“Readers will read between whatever lines you write, my dear. They will read for the adventures, but will feel the romance.” Holmes fingered Watson’s upper lip. “Your moustache has come along quite nicely.”

“I may need a pen name,” Watson said, leaning into him. “If I’m to be a character in our adventures, the author can’t have the same name. What do you think of Algernon Doyle?”

“Maybe Arthur. I’ve always liked that name.”

“Hm. If you think so.” He sighed with contentment. “Is it solved then? Jones has his man, I have a book. Pray, what do you get out of this affair?”

“You, my dear,” Holmes said. “I get the author.”


End file.
